


save every day 'til eternity passes away

by lacecat



Category: Black Sails
Genre: 4x09, Extended Scene, Flashbacks, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Sexual Content, Swordfighting, making out in the sand pirate style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-11 04:04:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10454640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacecat/pseuds/lacecat
Summary: Perhaps that’s where they exist, somewhere between the sea and sand, between something human and something otherworldly. Something known, tangible, and then something easily forgotten, as if it too was eroded by the waves.[4x09 extended scene]





	

**Author's Note:**

> I just had to write something to deal with all those 4x09 feelings. oh my god.  
> totally not beta-read, and tbh, not very well proof-read, but here you go! (i'm @jamesbarlow on tumblr)
> 
> ft. reflective flint, overuse of imagery, and pirate husbands making out after a sword fighting lesson. also some angst bc how can you not (really only sad if you consider the events that follow in season 4, otherwise everything is a-okay and nothing bad happens to them ever)
> 
> title from the song time in a bottle

•••

Below the edges of his boots, below where the sand and the grass fall away, he can see the line where the blue-gray-black waves meet the pale sand in sharp contrast. The border of water and earth seems to shift slightly as Flint watches, an uncertainty to where the one ends and the other begins. One pushing, the other pulling, forever in the cycle of giving and taking, the white foam of the waves serving as a border that dances back and forth. 

 

Perhaps that’s where they exist, somewhere between the sea and sand, between something human and something otherworldly. Something known, tangible, and then something easily forgotten, as if it too was eroded by the waves.

 

He thinks about walking down the beach in Padstow when he was a boy, rising early and creeping out of the house while his grandfather still slumbered. He remembers feeling the sharp grit of stones beneath the soles of his feet, the way that the cold water numbed the pain as he walked, the water still and quiet that early in the morning. 

 

Then, he had the wind whistling among the rocky cliffs to keep him company. He would huddle among the boulders to read from his stolen book, the edges of the paper curled from sea water, the tang of salt cracking his lips as he took his escape between the pages. Although it’s been a long time since he has walked barefoot along the edge of the water, where the sand slides away, he can still feel the weight of that book in his hands, the way he clutched onto it like he was afraid the wind would come and steal the words right off the pages. 

 

“You’re not straining your eyes to see Nassau again, are you?” a voice carries from behind him, bolstered by the cool wind that Flint can feel curling around the back of his neck like a soft touch. He doesn’t startle, as Silver continues, “If you lose your vision, I might just have a chance to best you after all.”

 

Flint thinks that he’s already been blinded in regards to John Silver, but but he doesn’t turn to look at the other man. He can feel the corner of his mouth quirk anyway, as he continues to watch the line between ocean and earth sway. “A chance?” 

 

“I have no doubt, captain,” Silver says, coming up behind him, the sound of his crutch reduced into a muffled tap from the soft sand, “That you have taught yourself to wield a sword while wearing a blindfold, lest your enemies strike in the dead of night.” 

 

He keeps his eyes trained forward, towards the pale blue horizon, as Silver comes around him, standing besides him. He can feel the warmth from the man’s shoulder radiate outwards, the edge of the crutch the faintest pressure against the outer edge of his boot. “Do you think that should be one of my concerns?” 

  
“I’m not planning on slitting your throat while you sleep, if that’s what you’re asking,” Silver says, and now Flint lets his eyes flit aside to glance at him without fully turning his head. “I wouldn’t dare risk having your ghost come after me for getting blood on the book you no doubt keep stashed beneath your pillow.”

 

Flint turns his head, studying, before he realizes what he’s doing. Silver’s hair is flowing loose today, the dark strands unrestrained as they move in the breeze. With his hair curling around his jaw, spilling over his shoulders, Flint is reminded of the dark waves below them that carve away the sand. The skin of Silver’s cheek, taut from a smirk, moves slightly along the edge of the dark hair that covers his jaw. He’s been letting his beard grow out, but the mustache has been trimmed recently, perhaps this morning, the edges neat and in sharp contrast to the upwards curl of his upper lip. Unlike the beach below, there’s a gradient in the form of a narrow strip of stubble that serves as a transition from his face to the beard, the edges fuzzy and undefined. 

 

He’s been staring for too long, Flint realizes, when the boundary between dark and light shifts, and the grin disappears, sliding off his face as quickly as it appeared. “Captain?” Silver queries, and now Flint looks up to his eyes. Silver’s eyes are not the color of the sea, he thinks, but more of the shadow of a cloud high above them, covering the sun during its descent to where the air meets the sea. They’re focused on him, and he thinks not of quiet mornings in Padstow, but the warmth of a fire between them, the dark green color of the bottle that they passed between each other, the rim warm from where Silver had taken a drink. 

 

“We’ll work on your footwork today,” Flint decides in lieu of an actual response, and Silver doesn’t push. He picks up the swords from the ground, offering one to the other man as always. Silver takes the blade, and positions himself, ready. 

 

This, Flint can manage. This, he can understand. The clang of metal on metal, the rough exhale of breath as he strikes hard, hitting the other man’s shoulder with the flat of the blade in warning. Silver twists, turning to attempt to strike his other side, but Flint is quick and swerves to avoid the hit. 

 

Silver is getting better, more comfortable with a blade in his hand and maneuvering with the crutch, but also in anticipating each blow. His eyes dart around from Flint’s face to the way that Flint positions his feet, one arm tucked behind his torso, watching and waiting for a gap in his motions. He’s come a long way from the wild thrusts that he had started with, before Flint had showed him how to predict each movement, to hold the steel in a way that makes his movements quick and unpredictable. 

 

Back and forth, they trade blows, Flint forcing Silver to keep moving, rotating on the point of his crutch, as he looks for weak points. Back and forth, they push, and pull, until Flint’s blade lightly hits the edge of Silver’s neck. A snarl emerges from the back of the man’s throat as Flint makes sure the cool metal doesn’t press to deeply, just as a warning, until Silver bats it away with his own sword once more. 

 

“Fuck,” Silver swears, and Flint doesn’t put his sword down, but he pauses in his offense. Silver glances down at the torn up grass between them once more, trampled by their boots as they spin around each other, before he looks back up at Flint, his eyes dark. 

 

“Do you-” Flint starts to ask. 

 

“Again,” Silver demands, and his voice is rough and low as he looks Flint right in the eye. 

 

Flint complies. He comes at him again, their swords scraping and clanging as they continue to fight. He twists and turns, avoiding the flick of Silver’s blade towards his waist, and parries the blow. 

 

They continue, and it could last for days or years, were it not for the sun sinking in the distance allowing Flint to keep track of time. It’s not quite sunset, but eventually the late afternoon sun is low enough to peek out from beneath the layer of clouds. It casts a dark orange haze that illuminates Silver from behind, the fine hairs on his forearms visible and catching the light from where he rolled up his sleeves. 

 

Flint takes a look at the other man, as they both catch their breath. Silver’s chest is heaving, his forehead covered in sweat, his hair slicked back. With the sun behind him, the edges of his hair turn a rich hue, the curls diffusing the light, while Flint can barely make his shadowed expression. He stops. 

 

“That’s enough for today,” Flint says, and he puts his sword back into the sand, the blade sinking into the earth and the handle wobbling slightly when he lets it go.

 

Silver, on the other hand, lets the blade fall from his hand, and he lets himself fall to the ground, setting the crutch down as he lays down on the ground. “Christ,” he says in a long exhale, letting his head slump back into the ground. “Tell me you’re not holding back, too.”

 

Flint smiles wryly, watching the other man’s eyes drift shut, his hair pooling on the ground around his head, a muscular arm thrown over his abdomen. “You’ve improved.”  


 

“That’s not a comforting answer,” Silver grumbles, and one of his eyes cracks open. “Well?” 

 

“Well?” Flint echoes, his brow furrowing. 

 

“Are you going to join me?” Silver says, almost looking exasperated, glancing down at the space next to him, and Flint’s breath nearly catches in his throat. “I’d quite like to catch my breath before making it back down that fucking hill.” 

 

Flint can feel his forehead go slack, as he continues to look down at the other man. Silver looks back at him, part daring, but the other part relaxed in a way that Flint realizes he’s never appreciated until this moment, beyond the easy spread of his limbs on the earth. That somewhere between first getting to the Maroon Island, between sword fighting lessons and pouring over maps late at night, he’s grown to know well the expression of being _content_ on Silver’s face. 

 

Contentment has no place while they’re fighting a war, Flint thinks to himself, even as he walks over to the man. Silver’s eyes are fixed on him. He thinks of some of the last words Charles Vane had ever spoken to him.

 

_“You have no instinct towards earning for yourself a life more comfortable?”, Flint had asked, the fire crackling on the other side of the room._

 

_"Give us your submission, and we will give you the comfort you need,” Vane had replied, his eyes pale and flashing in the dim light of Miranda’s house. “I can think of no measure of comfort worth that price.”_

 

Flint sits down next to Silver with a heavy sound, his legs spreading out in the grass below them. Silver watches, then, as he slides down in the grass, his head pillowed by the sand, before turning his head back. 

 

They lie there in silence, staring up at the sky. Flint can feel his heartbeat, slow and churning throughout his body, through his shirt, as he lets his hands rest in the dirt. Solidifying him against the soil, lest he feel as though he is displaced in the air, floating above all the pain and misery, the bloodshed. From here, he can hear the shrill whistle of the grass that moves by the wind, all strands bowing in the same direction as they are forced to move without being uprooted. 

 

He can just barely hear the waves crash against the shore far below them. The soft swell of sound is like whispers that rise in volume before drifting off again, growing lower before they come back again, and again, and again. He tries to time his breathing to the sounds, but the movement of the waves is too slow, and soon he feels the need to pull in more air into his lungs. It makes him desperate in a way that he is unable to put words too, too restless to stay still and in silence. Flint gets ready to get up, to start making his way back down the hill, when Silver’s voice interrupts his thoughts. 

 

“What’s the chance that both of us survive the invasion?” Silver says, reluctant with his words, as Flint freezes. He’s talking about events in the near future, but Flint can already taste the blood in his mouth, hear the gunfire roaring over his head. 

 

“We’ll be better prepared,” he says when Silver is still quiet, and he stays lying down. “We’ll have Teach and the others backing us up. We have Billy on the island to get an estimate of their numbers soon enough.”  


“But we will be on the front line,” Silver says, “And there’s a good chance that one or the both of us will pay a price for our war.” 

 

Flint’s breath is caught in his chest now. He wants to say, _You will be fine_ , but both he and Silver know that they are beyond empty promises. He wants to say, _I will protect you_ , but it’s just one of many unspoken things between them, another thought that he has no control over, no way to force it to manifest itself into reality. No matter how much the idea of Silver dying makes his ribcage stretch open, leaving him vulnerable and in agony. He could bleed out just at the thought, let himself dissolve right here into the sand, if it meant avoiding that possibility. The helplessness that crests over him makes him want to clench his fists, dig his nails into the dirt until he can wrestle a promise from the universe.

 

He swallows, and maybe it’s the movement, or something else that catches Silver’s eye, for he turns his head in the sand. Flint can feel his eyes on the side of his head, and he’s unable to stop his own head from turning, meeting the other man’s eyes. 

 

“It’s that sort of thought that keeps me awake at night,” Silver says, and Flint feels flushed, covered by the thick, warm air. “It’s that sort of thought that I cannot chase off.” 

 

Flint knows he’s not just talking about either one of their deaths. He knows what Silver is considering, that what he is truly afraid of is not the price that they might be called to pay. It’s that whatever is between them, the push-pull that they’ve been caught in for an eternity, they might regret not seeing it brought to a conclusion, that something might take that possibility, that chance, away. That _this_ \- this is them. 

 

Flint doesn’t say anything, just continues to look at him. There’s a long, stretched out moment, and then Silver moves, putting his hand on top of Flint’s forearm. “I can’t-” Silver begins, and then in a rare moment of self censorship, he cuts off, still looking right at Flint with those eyes. 

 

Flint wants to move, but he forces himself to stay still. He can’t make this decision for him, despite the feeling that is trapped in his chest, fluttering and vivid. He waits for Silver to remove his hand, to laugh and to sit up, but then Silver’s eyes go wide at whatever he sees on Flint’s face. 

 

The background sound of the waves fades away, until Flint is only aware of the shaky exhale that Silver makes, his breath against his face, the brush of his fingertips on Flint’s arm, the slow movement back and forth. 

 

Flint breathes in, out, and turns his arm from underneath Silver’s hand, so that the other man’s fingers are pressed to the soft skin of his wrist. He knows Silver can feel his heartbeat thud under his fingertips, feel the way that the blood underneath Flint’s skin is thrumming, just barely contained by flesh and bone. Silver is still sweaty from the exertion, a drop of sweat sliding down his temple to the top of his cheekbone, resting there in suspension. 

 

Silver squeezes, slightly, and the movement makes Flint inhale slightly, feeling his own fingers flex. Then one or both of them is leaning in, and Silver’s mouth is on his, what feels like a conclusion. 

 

HIs lips are warm, slightly chapped, and the slow slide of his mouth on Flint’s is like the turn of the waves as they go back and forth from the beach. Silver’s other hand comes up to frame Flint’s jaw, and it’s softer than what Flint had pictured, in the rare moments when his mind, loosened by liquor, had dared to dream up. There’s no biting force, no clashing of teeth, just the shuddering breath that Silver exhales into his mouth.

 

He breaks free for a moment, looking at Flint again, but instead of a question in his eyes, he just looks, taking Flint in, searching. Flint lets him look, rubs his thumb over the edge of Silver’s jaw, until Silver must understand whatever he was looking for, leaning in once more for another long kiss. 

 

Flint tilts his head back, urging Silver to follow, and the other man hooks his leg over Flint’s, twisting to do so. Flint’s hands make their way to Silver’s waist, where he helps him roll over until he’s pressing Flint into the sand, mindful of his stump, as Silver’s thigh goes between his easily. The hot weight of his body above his makes Flint arch slightly, his hands sliding up Silver’s sides and around until he’s clutching at his shoulders, into the dark fabric of his coat. 

 

He might moan, but he can’t hear, not with the way that Silver’s nose presses into his, his eyes squeezed shut as he breathes in and out, as though he’s trying to get as close to Flint as he can. He makes a low sound when Flint moves his hands down his biceps, sucking Flint’s lower lip in between his in response. Flint’s hands continue their path, until he reaches Silver’s wrists, and he pulls his arms up. 

 

Silver follows him, lacing their fingers together until he can push Flint’s hands above his head, stretched out above him. He doesn’t say anything, not even as he lets out another stuttering breath against Flint’s mouth, as Flint mouths along his jaw. Their bodies are pressed together so tightly that Flint can imagine sinking through the sand once more, but this time, Silver is on top of him, dissolving as well until they are so mixed up in once another that they cannot be separated, no border separating the two of them. 

 

Flint brings his leg up so that his heel can curl into Silver’s calf, grinding up until Silver moans above him. He’s once again desperate, only this time, there’s something that he knows he wants, knows that he can have, now that it’s pressing him into the ground. Silver adjusts himself, moving so that he can pull Flint’s hands together and trap them there with one hand, his other hand sliding down the side of Flint’s head, then lower still. 

 

Flint tilts his head back so that Silver can lightly drag his teeth down the planes of his throat, letting his mouth open in a silent gasp. Even as Silver reaches down his trousers, grasping him in his hand, he can’t risk shattering the moment between them with any sound. His breath is involuntarily punched out of his lungs when Silver grinds against him, hand working as though he’s thrusting with Flint’s leg between his, but he refuses to say anything, lest the words be what cuts between them, separating them. His heartbeat is now pumping loudly in his ears, and he can feel Silver’s, too, as their chests are pressed together, the two sets of heartbeats just slightly off rhythm. 

 

Flint thinks about sinking in the ocean, feeling the lack of breath burn his lungs, as he curls up into Silver’s touch, his hands still pinned above his head. Silver slides down, biting down on his collarbone when he comes, the first bloom of pain that makes Flint gasp, watching as Silver muffled his moan into Flint’s chest. 

 

Silver’s eyes are squeezed shut as his hips stutter, chasing the remnants of his orgasm, and Flint just watches him. Forces his eyes open, not wanting to miss a single second, even as Silver’s fingers continue to tease the head of his cock. Silver licks the mark he made, his eyes fixed on Flint even as he looks stunned, and Flint comes with that gaze pinned on him, flexing beneath Silver’s grasp as the first true moan wrenches its way from his throat. 

 

They’re both gasping for breath, Silver finally releasing Flint’s wrists so that he can put his head on Flint’s chest, his arms coming up on either side. After a long moment, Flint puts a hand on the other man’s back, feeling his heartbeat thud nearly painfully, even closer in time to Silver’s than before. 

 

They lie there, even as the sun is setting behind them, the last remnants of light quickly fading. Slowly, Flint can begin to hear the ocean waves crash against the shore once more, the whistle of wind overhead. 

 

He thinks that what might be impossible and what is real, what is present, what is _there_ , just might have more in common. The more Flint seems to look for an answer, after all, the less likely his success, the greater the loss. He thinks, perhaps not all that is stolen from the ocean waves is necessarily forgotten, that perhaps the ocean just might give, just as it takes, and it is a matter of remembering which it is. 

 

He knows about what can be taken, but perhaps, he might learn to know what can be given. Perhaps just this once, he can have this.

 

•••


End file.
